


The Beautiful Game

by Cerealcuddler



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Football, Football | Soccer, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-08-14
Updated: 2013-10-13
Packaged: 2017-12-23 12:39:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 13,019
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/926524
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cerealcuddler/pseuds/Cerealcuddler
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>With newly promoted Whitehall Place F.C. looking to stay in the Premier League, manager Michael Stamford is bringing in players to round out his team. Defensive midfielder and habitual transfer veteran John Watson is one of these new transfers. Although still not back in full form after his injury, Watson is a powerful player in his position and could be a great counterpoint to formidable striker Sherlock Holmes.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> A big thank you to the amazing [caramel_sins](http://archiveofourown.org/users/caramel_sins) for beta-ing and listening to me bitch all the time.
> 
> Also, thank you to [anotherwellkeptsecret](http://anotherwellkeptsecret.tumblr.com/) who draws absolutely amazing artwork and who drew an incredible drawing that really helped to motivate me. She has also been wonderful in supporting me through my writer's block.
> 
> Big shout out as well to [Jupiter_Ash](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Jupiter_Ash/pseuds/Jupiter_Ash) and [earlgreytea68](http://archiveofourown.org/users/earlgreytea68/pseuds/earlgreytea68), who proved that Sherlock sports AU can be amazing (and, in earlgreytea68's case, prove that it's not perfect, but Sherlock can be on a sports _team_ ).

* * *

_Whitehall Manager Michael Stamford Confirms John Watson Transfer_

_While defender Victor Trevor has confirmed his departure from the club, there’s been news about a new addition to the promoted team, who could be in line to take Trevor’s place. Stamford says he is thrilled to announce the successful signing of nomadic defensive midfielder John Watson and believes Watson will help to bolster their defen **c** e. During negotiations, fans seemed s **c** eptical about Watson’s role in the club given his previous temporary stays. No use getting attached to a player if he’s not going to stick around. _

* * *

With only empty cars as his company, John leaned back on his car, shoved his fists in his pockets, and took a moment’s pause outside his new home stadium. In the evening light, he gazed at the grey giant that was at once intimidating and exhilarating, as well as paradoxically familiar and entirely foreign. It was a feat mastered by sheer commonality. Sure, some stadiums had glass fronts or some other design addition and some were rectangular, some were circular, and others were in between, but in the end there always seemed to be a grey enclosure in there somewhere. It was somewhat comforting to know that no matter how many times he transferred, something would always be the same. There would always be the stands and rows of seats and, regardless of the match day fill of the stadium, there would always be the roar of the crowd that made everything else fall away. There would be the bench with each player sitting just at the edge and itching to get on the pitch. There was always the feeling of standing his ground and the rush of a great tackle ending the opposition’s attack. 

One of his earliest memories was from when he was five or six and Harry was eight or nine. Money was tight and their Dad had talked their Mum into letting the three of them go to a Liverpool game, throughout which he, of course, got more and more drunk, though John didn’t realize it then. The five or six year-old John just noticed his Dad saying the words John was told he was never allowed to say. He remembered Harry trying to get Dad to explain what was going on and he remembered that she never got any answers. He remembered bouncing in his seat, yelling “Liverpool” whenever everyone else did. He knew then that he wanted to be part of it as much as he could. He wanted that to be his life. He already played football – as much as a five year-old could – and enjoyed it, but to feel it in his bones as the crowd boomed; he knew that was it. It was decided. He wanted to feel the rush of playing a great game and the thunder of the crowd every day of his life. That was his dream. 

Tomorrow, he would train with his newest teammates at his newest training ground in his newest training kit given to him by his newest manager. This was something that he should be used to, but John didn’t think he’d ever get used to the thrum in his blood that came with the weighty expectations. He needed to be in great form; he needed to help build up the defen **c** e; and, in order to do this, he needed to not get injured again. He needed to not still be feeling a twinge in his thigh with no explanation. He had his teammates depending on him. He had his manager depending on him. He had his family depending on him. He had fans depending on him. He had the club’s executive structure depending on him. He knew it wasn’t all on him, but people would be looking at how he played and one player could make a difference; he was supposed to make that difference. 

Driving back to his apartment, John tried to take a long look at his newest home, too. He couldn’t just look at the great grey giant; he needed to know the community that many of the Whitehall fans would come from. He needed to know the people of Fitton, even if only in his own small way. He knew that not many were invested in his staying – hell, he was struggling to wrap his head around the idea of a long-term future – but he had to make the effort. He didn’t want to be just another interloper. He wanted to be at home. On the way into town, he’d seen the airport, parks, neighborhoods, restaurants, and even sheep. He knew he was a rather long way away from his true hometown – from London – but even so John had to admit Fitton seemed like a nice place. He could definitely get used to living here and he could probably come to really like it. 

Admittedly, he hadn’t invested in a big flashy apartment, but then he never put much money into new apartments. It just wasn’t his way. For John, if the apartment came with furniture, had a bedroom, bathroom, and kitchen, and was in a good part of town, then it was all fine. He wasn’t much of decorator and, even if he was, he didn’t need to get invested in picking a place and decorating it, only to give it up a season or two later. When he and Mary were together, she’d gradually decorated the apartment herself, but that ended, she took her things, and he was transferred. Now, everything he needed was in his car and he just needed a bed to sleep in and a place to plug his kettle in.

But tonight, even after drinking his tea and tucking himself into bed, it was hard to sleep knowing what would begin once morning came. He needed to sleep – he could feel the hours ticking by – but still his mind was refusing to calm until the alarm sounded and the opportunity was officially gone. 

He reluctantly shoved himself out of bed and began his ritual for the day: food, coffee, get dressed, brush teeth, and, finally, leave. 

* * *

 After the brief morning meeting, which served to declare the structure of training for the day, and warm-up, during which John tried to be subtle about his attempt to memorize everyone around him, they split up to work on various vital skills. Fortunately, John was able to quickly learn that Bill Murray, Ralph Anderson, Porky Johnson, and Athelney Jones were his fellow players in defence and therefore began to watch them particularly closely. These weren’t perhaps the best conditions for seeing how his teammates would play on the pitch, because they weren’t in formation and so John couldn’t say who went where, but he could see whose feet and skills were weak and whose were strong.

Porky Johnson, for example, was a solid man, which John assumed was where his nickname came from, though he wasn’t chubby. After all, footballer couldn’t really be chubby. He was just so remarkably solid. John really couldn’t think of a more apt word. Porky was substantial. As a short footballer, John wasn’t a stranger to feeling towered over, but that didn’t mean he ever got used to it and Porky was definitely a player who could easily intimidate just by nature of being him. That was a definitive strength. A moment of panic could ruin an attack that looked promising. John was intimidated and they were on the same team.  

In the rare moment of pause, he stepped back and saw the intermingling swarm that was his new club. Players were divided into groups running through drills; some were shooting, some trying out footwork. As John stretched, he watched the players interact. There were clear pairs of close friends and some groups seemed to get along easily, but one player seemed to never quite blend in with the others. 

John remembered this player well. 

He didn’t think any Championship defender last season could say they didn’t remember playing against Sherlock Holmes, who, like smoke, always slipped through the defenders’ grasp. John had played in a handful of games against Sherlock in his time and he still wasn’t sure how Holmes instantly knew how to manoeuvre around them so smoothly. He didn’t wait around to weigh his options. He was definitely a force to be reckoned with. There was no pressuring Sherlock Holmes into panicking. It was frustrating and remarkable. Yes, he remembered the Whitehall matches vividly. They were always a struggle. There was no easy win there. John’s club had at least kept its pride, but only just. Sherlock Holmes was a one-man defensive nightmare. But he was one man and that was his downfall. They learned by the second game that they could only hope to overwhelm him with numbers and cut off any direct shots on goal. Some call it anti-football but it seemed like the only thing that worked. They didn’t need to worry much about crosses or quick passes to unmarked players; Holmes never passed. He got the ball and kept the ball until someone managed to get a foot in and clear it. He just wished he’d worked that out before the first game ended with a resounding and rather humiliating defeat.

Obviously, John had never seen Holmes like this. He’d never been standing on the same pitch with him in any casual situation. Now, he could really look at him and he hoped it would help him understand now what evaded him last season. What John saw was Holmes, even in training, giving his all. He was so thoroughly sweaty that his short curly hair was sticking to his forehead. Holmes was pushing himself to his limit and expecting it of those around him and clearly felt he wasn’t seeing it. Where other players were joking around, Holmes seemed mostly silent and only broke this silence to give direct orders to other players, who at best simply nodded and at worst yelled back. John could see now that Holmes’ isolated playing could easily be his own preference but could just as easily be fue **ll** ed by off-pitch conflicts. Especially when the only people attempting to smooth things over were the manager and Greg Lestrade, team captain, who looked about John’s age, despite all the grey hair. John was a betting man and he would bet a great deal of money that those greys came withSherlock Holmes.

* * *

Eventually, Stamford blew a whistle and gave the next set of directions, including the order that the first team – with the exception of the keeper, a Tobias Gregson – should gather with Lestrade to get started playing five-a-side, then took his own place next to Lestrade. The two ducked their heads towards each other and talked seriously while the others made their way over, before Stamford promptly looked up at his gathering first team with his seemingly ever-present smile. 

“In case you’ve forgotten, this is John Watson, our defensively-inclined midfielder,” Stamford announced as he walked over and grabbed John by the shoulder. “Just so he can get a refresher on you all, give a little wave when I call you, yeah? Just like infant school. Suits you well. Porky Johnson, Athelney Jones, Tim Dimmock, Fitz von Waldbaum, and Armand Dubuque, you’re one group. Grab a vest. Sherlock Holmes, Ralph Anderson, and Bill Murray, you’re with John and Greg. Everyone get some water quickly, too.” 

As much as John tried to keep track when names were called, he found himself a bit at a loss. He walked to get water in a sort of mystified haze. Luckily, Stamford had walked away to talk to another of the coaches, so he didn’t see what must have been a **g** laringly obvious confused expression. Lestrade, however, did not miss it, because he gave an appeasing smile and said, “You’ll see who is who and in what position when we settle in.” 

“Lestrade!” It was almost comical how quickly Lestrade’s smile fell and the almost exaggerated huff that came with his now exhausted look. 

Holmes approached with a look that could by no means pass as pleased. He stopped just inside what would be considered Lestrade’s personal space and was just as sweat **-** soaked up close as he seemed from far away and he was breathing pretty hard. He wiped at his forehead with his sleeve, which was rolled up to just above his elbow, but it didn’t seem to do much good. 

“Sherlock Holmes, always a pleasure,” Lestrade joked. 

“I was purposely placed with Anderson! In a five man group, no less!” Sherlock snapped. 

“We are a team, you know,” Lestrade stated blandly. 

“Yes, unfortunately, I am aware, but you must also be aware that Anderson won’t work with me,” he hissed. 

“On the bright side, he won’t be your marker. Anyway,” Lestrade began, shifting his town completely. “Sherlock, this is-“ 

“John Watson, obviously, since Stamford said it earlier today and then just a moment ago and I do, in fact, have the ability to remember something I’ve just heard. I hope you don’t expect me to introduce myself when it is clear my name is already known,” Sherlock stated matter-of-factly. 

“Sherlock-“ Lestrade chided. 

“Lestrade, when you can logically explain to me why it is necessary to repeat my name when it is clear that the person I am talking to has heard my name in relation to me not once before, but at least three times now, then I will start partaking in the ridiculous practice. Until then, I will save myself the redundancy.” 

“Well, you certainly didn’t save yourself any breath.” 

Sherlock conceded the point as he continued to pant slightly and gave an obviously forced and oddly painful-looking smile, before briskly turning around and walking away to get water. 

“Charmer, eh? I wish I could say that was unusual, but that’s pretty par for the course with Sherlock.” 

“It’s fine,” John said. 

It was fine. The argument made sense, even if, when he was being entirely honest, he would have to admit that he wished for more than he got. Even a brush-off would have been better than to be totally ignored. But, he would never say it. He prided himself on being someone who was not so easily beaten down by another’s behaviour. His own worry could eat at his brain and pain his leg, but he knew how to stand his ground against abrasive people thanks to Dad and Harry. Even if Holmes was as antagonistic with him as he was with Anderson, John knew how to handle himself. 

And yet, he wondered not for the first time, what exactly he’d got himself into. He’d seen bad team chemistry – after all being on a team together didn’t mean players liked each other – but he’d never seen it quite like this. 

Seeing the other players milling back from their water break, John shook off all thoughts of rebuff and concentrated on playing great footie even if this was only training.

True to Lestrade’s assurances, John found it surprisingly easy to imprint in his memory who was who and where they played when he had the memory of how they played against him to pin the name to. He realized there was really only three players to remember – no big deal. It was just the bombardment of names that had thrown him. He could remember that Fritz Von Waldbaum and Armand Dubuque were the two wingers who liked to go wide and cross and Tim Dimmock was the attacking midfielder who contrastingly focused his energy on the center. He learned the first names from what Lestrade or Stamford said and he learned the surnames from whatever Holmes shouted. It was all fine. 

He got to feel how everything worked. The skills he saw in pieces before came together in whole. In the front, Lestrade and Holmes pushed forward and if they succeeded, the ball would be back in midfield and if they did not, it was John’s job to push the ball forward again. There was a nice ebb and flow to things. There was the structure of positions and creativity of the moment in one and it was a rush. 

Luckily, Anderson and Murray seemed okay with taking John’s suggestions even when they bordered on directions. If he’d had the time to pause and think, he might have apologized or held back, but that was the amazing thing about football for John. It took away the stray thoughts and got him in business. He barely thought about his leg, because he was so absolutely focused. He could feel the blood pound in his veins and the air pull through his throat. His leg pained him, but only as much as the rest of his muscles. Holmes shouted at him a couple times for this or that, instructing briskly on changes that would improve his playing, but he was a footballer. He was a defender playing well with his teammates and that’s all that mattered. It felt wonderful. He could have happily gone on all day. 

Plus, John found out just how thoroughly enjoyable it could be to watch Holmes play. Without the panic of picking a game plan and then trying to intimidate a player who seemed entirely unperturbed by anything you could put together, John could really enjoy the goals Holmes and Lestrade put away. He didn’t need to reluctantly concede the beauty of how they played. There was no bitterness paired with seeing Lestrade and Holmes work together. Of course, Holmes, as he seemed wont to do, dominated, but Lestrade seemed to be a second striker and was as much an aid on the pitch as he was off. He certainly knew how to pick up loose balls and provide Holmes with his opportunities. John saw that, as much as Holmes was impressive in his evaluation and mastery of the game, Lestrade was just as much to thank for Holmes’ advances. Holmes had the grace of a footballer who knew what he was doing and how to do it. His dribbling left little question of possession. Holmes may have to bend and dodge, but he would get where he wanted to go. 

John was disappointed, when, after scoring another goal, Holmes jogged off the training pitch instead of picking up the ball to run back up and start again. Holmes simply exited while the rest of the players and Stamford showed no sign of slowing. 

“Why is he-“ John began. 

“Holmes doesn’t change when we do, apparently won’t stoop to that level. He’s a posh git who appears out of nowhere and still thinks he’s the best thing to happen to football and the world should bow at his feet, while some people have been in football since Day One,” Anderson snapped.   

“Sherlock leaves early to prepare for the strategy meeting,” Lestrade supplied. 

“To prepare?” John asked, exceedingly confused. He couldn’t think of a single reason why a player would need to leave training early before a strategy meeting. 

“He runs it.” 

“He can’t be more than eighteen or nineteen!” John exclaimed. 

“Twenty. You get used to it,” Lestrade stated plainly. 

John was about to ask another question, but Greg nodded back towards their mini-match and John knew that was as much as he was going to get and he needed to get back to work. With that, Greg stepped forward into Sherlock’s role and a substitute, who Stamford had already waved over, stepped into the vacancy. 

“Again?” Lestrade shouted. 

* * *

The next time he saw Sherlock Holmes, it was as if he were seeing his twin and not the man himself. The rest of the team were flushed and damp from hot showers and wearing nothing fancier than a pair of jeans and a t-shirt. Sherlock, per usual, stood out starkly. It was hard to believe that this stiff, prim man was the same graceful person, who had been sweating it out on the pitch. This man, in his tailored suit, surely couldn’t be the same man, but as he opened his mouth and as John heard his clear, nearly robotic tone, the doubt was entirely gone. No one else could match that. 

“First things first, we need objectives for the season. At the very least, we need to remain in this league. Probability says at least one of the promoted teams will be relegated; we cannot be that team. It is less likely that of the three teams promoted, we will be relegated, because we finished as the Championship Leaders. However, just passing is never a good ultimate objective. The best position a promoted team achieved was third and that was in 1995; this is a good objective. This is what we aim for. Additionally, we should aim to win a major trophy; either the FA Cup or the League Cup will do.” 

“Will do.” Anderson scoffed. He gazed around and rolled his eyes for everyone to see. He was congratulated with a round of scoffs and indignant snorts. 

“Anderson, you may be perfectly satisfied by mediocrity, but I’d prefer if you didn’t spread your affliction,” Sherlock snapped back. “If you managed to shut up for just a moment, you might recall that when I said we could be promoted from League One and from The Championship in successive seasons, you laughed at that as well.” Anderson looked to be working up a response, but Sherlock was quick to cut him off. “We aren’t going to get anywhere if we don’t actually push to be the best. I’m not going to give you any sentimental speeches about how you have to work to succeed, because that should be blatantly obvious. We would not be the first team to win the League Cup just after being promoted to the Premier League and Wigan won the FA Cup last season even though, in the end, they were relegated. It is not impossible, only improbable, but we absolutely cannot have average ambitions. 

“So, back to the strategy: as I have always said, each player, regardless of position, needs at least a basic proficiency in the other positions so that you can better predict the opponent’s mentality, which is why it is important for everyone to listen to the techniques even if it is not necessarily your position and everyone needs to train in every position even if only briefly. Attacking players need to exercise new techniques and the defenders need to know what to watch out for. For instance, there is the basic concept that attacking players need to put themselves in the position, should the keeper get hands to the ball, to be ready to take advantage of a spill. Defenders need to know this tactic and therefore vigilantly mark the opposition, so that it is not easily done and the defender can clear the ball instead.” 

John thought he could almost hear the groans many were keeping trapped in the backs of their throats and, by the end of the meeting, he could soundly agree that the scholarly feel of this meeting was overbearing and made him feel like he ought to be taking notes in case there was a quiz. It was a lot to take in at once and there never seemed to be any breaks. Holmes could eloquently piece together sentences about technique and formations and whatnot without pause. He never stuttered or used filler words. John was simultaneously flooded with confidence and insecurity. He had faith in the analysis – how could he not with the proficiency in which it was presented? – but he was worried about the implementation. He absolutely couldn’t be the one to fail and he couldn’t see how all the words swarming in his head were going to all stay there. 

At the end of Sherlock’s techniques and plans, Stamford gave a much briefer speech obviously put together to transform the dryness of Sherlock’s torrent of information into an uplifting declaration of potential and encouragement of drive. It made its point with most, despite the restlessness and John definitely felt better to hear Stamford lighten the expectations. Holmes was do or die. Stamford was gentler and, at that moment, it was clearly appreciated by all.

* * *

After the introductions, the training, and the strategy meeting, John was **,** at long last **,** on his way to his car, wonderfully exhausted inside and out and ready to go back to his apartment and put the kettle on.  He was too tired to think much beyond the basic needs for safe driving and it felt fantastic. Staying up all night with worry was not an option tonight. He could barely think in fully formed sentences. There would be no expectations weighing on his mind. He would not worry about an ache in his leg or the heightened likelihood for another hamstring injury now that he’s already had one. He just had to make his legs take him to bed.

Tomorrow he would start again.  


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Really grateful to [rifleman_s](http://archiveofourown.org/users/rifleman_s/pseuds/rifleman_s) for helping me by beta-ing and Brit-picking! Especially since reading it raw probably ruins it a bit!
> 
> And, as always, thanks to [anotherwellkeptsecret](http://anotherwellkeptsecret.tumblr.com/) for her inspiring drawings!

* * *

_Game Preview: Whitehall Place v. West Ham United_  

_In its first competitive game of the season, Whitehall Place will want to start with a bang and that might just happen. Whitehall, like West Ham, will be looking to gain three points and begin their fight to stay in the Premier League. Michael Stamford has invested a good chunk of the £90 million in bolstering his squad; now, fans will be wondering which of these new players will make their club debut and seem particularly interested in John Watson’s role. Will he start and will he stay? Can the fans get invested in his place on the team? If Watson stays, he could provide the solid intuition and leadership the Whitehall defence has lacked. West Ham knows the Premier League a little better than Whitehall and fans are quietly optimistic, but with Watson coordinating in the back and Sherlock Holmes upfront, Whitehall could come out with a win._

* * *

“Since the Premier League began, West Ham’s position has been no higher than ninth in that League and, at its lowest, sixth in Championship. This season is only the second season since they were promoted from winning the play-offs. So, this is an attainable win. They are _literally_ mid-level. We could not have asked for a better team to play first time in the Premier League. We can use West Ham to properly acclimatise. Last season, West Ham started well and got to joint sixth, but didn’t have good pace, creativity, or concentration and failed to convert and thus fell to tenth, which is a real achievement considering they scraped by to get into the Premier League anyway. West Ham is best at holding onto a nil-nil draw and then squeezing out a point at the last minute.  Attacking isn’t their strong suit but they have potential in a couple of players, so we can’t let our guard down. Stamford and I have agreed that we should play a 4-3-3 formation, because it covers all the important areas and is still flexible. Our players are Gregson in goal, obviously; Murray, Johnson, Jones, and Anderson in the back; Watson, Dimmock, and Lestrade in midfield; and Dubuque, von Waldbaum, and myself in the front. Obviously, Watson is closer to the back and Dubuque and von Waldbaum are our wingers. We can do this if you just remember what I’ve told you and then _do it_.”

“Thank you, Sherlock,” Mike said, amiably as he stepped up to take Sherlock’s place at the front and Sherlock stepped to lean in the corner. “Now, if Sherlock thinks we can do it, then we can do it. You all know that Sherlock doesn’t sugar coat, so we go out tomorrow and we win. We have new players, who know their shit and the existing players know what it’s like to win with each other. Like Sherlock said, play smart and play creative and we’ll be just fine,” Mike insisted, with a smile. 

In the handful of training sessions he’d had with Whitehall, he’d discovered that, while Mike Stamford seemed like just another occasionally bumbling but friendly man who loved and knew football in and out, his smirk showed that he had some sort of sly plan and John, for the life of him, didn’t have a clue what it was. 

“Anyway,” Mike continued, “in honour of our first competitive game of the season and, therefore, our first win of the season, I think we should all go out to dinner.” 

“Hell, yeah! Free dinner!” Murray shouted, smiling his bright, innocent smile that made him look just as young as Sherlock, although he was three years older. It also didn’t help him to look his age when his short blonde hair was so hastily dried that it wasn’t really dried at all and dripped on his t-shirt. John thought it shouldn’t be possible to feel so old when, one, he was around a person only two years younger and, two, he really wasn’t old. Though, he supposed, he had, for almost as long as he could remember, felt older than he was. 

“Free?” Mike laughed. “I can’t pay to feed you lot! You’d eat through what’s left of the £90 million!” 

“Look who’s talking!” Anderson joked. 

“Yeah, I know I got fat. When you retire and run a nursery school for grown men, then you can get fat, too. Until then, you can buy your own damn dinner and then show up for your match and burn it off while you run up and down the pitch.” 

Amidst the subsequent cheering, joking, and laughing, John looked over and saw Sherlock still at the front table, back turned, shoving papers randomly – and rather mercilessly – into a duffle bag. Greg must have seen it too, because he quickly walked over to Sherlock and leaned in to talk with him. Only being able to see their backs meant John couldn’t say what was happening for sure, but he could tell that as much as Greg wanted to throw his arm around Sherlock’s shoulder, he kept close, but not close enough to touch. Finally, Sherlock gave a slight nod and Greg turned back to the crowd with a satisfied smile. 

“Everything ok?” John asked, just as Greg was about to walk past. 

“He’s just being a baby about not wanting to go out to dinner. I told him to suck it up and try spending time with people for a change. Making Sherlock socialize after hours with Anderson, sounds like great plan, eh?” 

“Great plan,” John confirmed. 

* * *

Given the scepticism he and Greg had, he was pleasantly surprised that nothing out of the ordinary happened during dinner. More people complained about not getting a free dinner, some complained about not being able to get absolutely pissed, and others thankfully kept their mouths shut, including shy, quiet, tall and gangly, picture-perfect Swede **,** Tobias Gregson. The first team stayed together as a group for longer than expected, too. They made it all the way through dinner talking and joking about nothing much at all. There was no shoptalk and no “so tell us about yourself?” types of questions. Aside from repeat pestering to have another pint and unwind, no one much bothered with John. So, he, Bill Murray and Greg were thankfully able to keep mostly to themselves as Bill bemoaned the fact that John didn’t get to meet the Icarus Removals guy, because he’s “a bloody riot” and Greg told the story of how he once convinced a group of drunk students from the local agricultural college that he was a constable and they were under arrest and then let them off with a warning. 

He was having a genuinely good time, but he wasn’t as outgoing as his fellows and unless it was from pumped up fans, he couldn’t take a lot of shouting for long. So, when Bill and Greg looked to be merging with the larger group again, John seized the opportunity to step back, sit at the bar, give the barman a forced smile, and thank him for asking, but, no, he didn’t want another drink. 

“You’ve given yourself strict drinking rules because you have a family history of alcoholism.” 

John jumped slightly in surprise. He hadn’t even noticed Sherlock. For a moment, John wondered if he imagined it, because Sherlock seemed to be entirely zoned out. He was sitting alone, hunched over the bar, with his suit-clad elbows pressed to the sticky surface, with his finger tracing the dew from his pint around the bar surface as he stared straight ahead at nothing more than the lined up bottles on the wall.  

“Sorry?” John asked, truly bewildered. 

“You’ve had one drink all night even though it clearly wasn’t  because you were particularly sensitive to peer pressure, because Jones has been hounding you ever since. It’s also not because you didn’t like it, because your order was automatic. A favourite then. It’s not because you can’t afford it, because we’re _professional football players_. So, you’re giving yourself a strict limit. Why? A negative experience is most likely,” Sherlock listed off in his usual bland-toned stream of consciousness. 

“It could be a friend,” John suggested. 

“It could be. A friend would prompt moderation, certainly but it’s not likely that you’d be as stringent as to have a one-drink limit. You’re afraid of having a predisposition. You’re worried that if you let yourself indulge you might not want to stop. You never want to get past a buzz. That says family. It’s likely that one of your parents is an alcoholic, but if you have a sibling close in age, particularly a brother, then you probably feel a potential for mirroring. Also, males are statistically more often binge drinkers, so that says father and now perhaps a brother. You don’t want the Watson men all to be drunks.” 

“Brilliant,” John admired. 

“You think so?” Sherlock asked. He whipped his head to the side at what John thought must be near whiplash speed and looked him up and down sceptically.

John tried not to laugh at how endlessly dramatic Sherlock seemed to be. “Of course, it is. Absolutely brilliant.” 

Sherlock looked away again and picked up his pint. 

“That’s not what people usually say,” he said casually once he’d put his pint down again. 

“I can tell.” 

John looked over at Anderson and remembered his comment about how they shouldn’t allow Sherlock near the kid mascots. 

“You don’t have to stay, you know, Holmes,” John said. 

“Please, Sherlock, and, yes, I know.” 

“So, why are you here?” When John was met with total silence, he replayed what he’d said. “I mean, you don’t need to leave, but you don’t seem keen on staying.” 

“I’m accumulating data,” Sherlock said absently. 

“Data?” John questioned. 

“Yes, that’s what I said,” Sherlock deadpanned. 

“What is your role at Whitehall anyway?” John asked, the curiosity he’d been nurturing since the first day bubbling up. 

“What do you think?” Sherlock challenged with what John assumed was a smirk, but he couldn’t be sure seeing that Sherlock still refused to look straight at him. 

“Well, I know you’re a striker, but strikers never lead strategy meetings. That’s usually the manager, but you’re also clearly not the manager, not only because I know Mike is, but because you didn’t communicate with my agent and arrange my transfer or do any of that administrative stuff.” 

“Well, I didn’t sign your contract,” Sherlock said, clearly baiting him. 

“What do you mean?” 

“I mean, when a transfer period begins, I look at performance, affordability, and trainability and then I make my suggestions to Stamford. Obviously, Anderson arrived before I did, though I did suggest that he should be transfer listed or at least loan listed.” 

“So, you’re kind of a player-manager? But hasn’t Mike been manager for years? There’s no need for an assistant manager and even if there was, you wouldn’t be fulfilling all the manager’s duties and there’s no way you’re Whitehall’s most senior player either.” 

“Well done. You’re close; I’ll give you that. Lestrade is more similar to a captain-coach because he’s good at implementing Stamford’s instructions during training if the need arises, but, more importantly, he’s uniquely gifted when dealing with, shall we say, _conflicting personalities_. However, I like to think I’m something else entirely. You asked what my role at Whitehall is. I find the idea of meeting with the executives and speaking at press conferences painfully boring, I have no time to acquire the professional coaching qualifications, and I am obviously entirely unable to give a morale-boosting locker-room speech, but I am great at statistics and strategy, so I take the parts I like and Stamford allows it because, unlike most, he knows my insight is valuable. I’m a striker on the pitch, but a strategist off it. I chose the duties that suit me. I’ve created my own hybrid career—to my knowledge, the only one in the world.” 

“Amazing.” 

Surprisingly, Sherlock actually locked eyes with him, stared him down with that dissecting look of his, and smirked again. 

“You don’t need to worry about the alcoholism. You’re an adrenaline junkie, but you’re no drunk,” Sherlock declared, quickly swivelling off his barstool, and walking out of the door. John could do nothing but simply stare as it slammed closed. 

He turned back to the line of liquor Sherlock had just been staring at. He’d had his drink for the night. Sherlock hadn’t changed his mind but **,** he admitted **,** he did wonder. His Dad was probably on his fifteenth beer and Harry was probably at the bottom of her whisky bottle. His Dad was what one might consider a functioning alcoholic – Harry, not so much. His Dad drank beer after beer every night after work, filling the dustbin entirely every day with bottles that clinked when anyone added an empty milk carton or a leftover take-away box. He has two fridges: one in the kitchen and one in his bedroom, stocked to the brim with beer. He rarely gets really drunk. Typically, he stays at a buzz. Harry’s mission is to get drunk and stay drunk. The dustbin doesn’t clink, because Harry doesn’t bother to throw away her bottles. She let them pile up around the house until Clara cleans them up. Unfortunately, Clara wasn’t able to clean Harry up. John didn’t blame her, of course. There was no way he could blame Clara for not being able to do what he couldn’t do, what rehab hadn’t been able to do permanently ~~.~~ Harry didn’t like being challenged by anyone. Challenge Harry and she’d happily toss throw you out. She did with nurses at rehab. She did with him. She did with Clara. 

Sherlock Holmes was a genius and John would take his advice on the pitch, but he wasn’t so confident that, if he were to allow himself to indulge, he wouldn’t leave a wake of bottles. He couldn’t afford to take the chance.

“Gotten used to it yet?” Lestrade asked, slipping onto a stool beside him. He quirked an eyebrow and gave a wry smile. 

“Not quite,” John said distractedly. “How does anyone get used to not knowing exactly what’s going to happen next?” 

“You just accept it,” Greg said simply. “Just wait. You’re in for one hell of a season. No doubt about that.” 

“Yeah, I can see that,” John joked in agreement.

* * *

_The gap between the Premier League and Championship is not as large as it used to be, so there are no guarantees today. West Ham and Whitehall should be a good match. It’s boring for us just to see men against boys and a newly promoted club versus a recently promoted club sounds like a good time. These two clubs probably have the same goals in mind, so it will definitely be an interesting match to see who ends up getting the three points and moving up the table. No one wants to sink to the bottom, but these guys are likely really feeling the pressure._  

God, John was nervous. He tugged aimlessly at the sleeve of his shirt, rubbing the fabric between his forefinger and his thumb. These were definitely nice kits, easily the best he’d had. He always took whatever he was given and never complained – no one would ever call John Watson a diva – but if a player said he didn’t have a favorite, John thought he must be lying. He’d worn neon orange that blinded him in the morning before his coffee kicked in and he’d worn both a shirt with a collar that always felt intrusive in the few moments of pause and a crew neck shirt that would feel constricting in high stakes moments like these. Yes, this new kit was definitely nice. The v-neck would give him a breather and the navy was rather soothing and – he had to admit – just looked cool. It was ridiculous for him to think that this small thing would make so much of a difference for him – that a shirt would matter so much – but ever since he was handed it, he’d enjoyed brushing his fingers across it. He supposed if he were the type, he’d say something about finding small pleasures. As it were, this was a bit of an indulgent habit and he might as well let himself have moments before this potentially life-changing match. 

Standing in line just a door away from a stadium of thousands, John was understandably jittery with energy. His first Premier League match with a new team, it was about time he got over everything being new, but it was just _so much_. This wasn’t a Championship club. He was playing in the top class of English football. He’d made it. They weren’t at the top of the table, but he was in the table. That’s all that mattered. He knew his head would clear once the roar of the crowd broke him down to his instincts, but in this build up and suspense, there was an entirely different kind of cacophony. God, it needed to start already. 

_Well, Whitehall fans were wondering which of the transfers would be making their debut today and it looks like both transfers John Watson and Tim Dimmock are playing today._

Out on the pitch, just waiting for Greg and Sherlock to start the game, John could feel everything but the people right in front of him melting away. He didn’t feel his leg ache as it had been all morning and didn’t have the thoughts of reinjury and hamstrings buzzing in his head. He didn’t have the time to think about taking care of his leg and it was beautiful. 

_Watson clears well. Calmly done, when others might have panicked. Whitehall has a tenacious group of defenders willing to challenge and tackle and this is an example of them doing it well._  

_Christ_ , this feels great. It feels _fantastic_. _This_ is why he put off going studying at Uni and didn’t follow his family history of military service. This is why working his way up through clubs was worth it. He just had to play.

_Murray clears it to Watson. Watson takes it to midfield and passes cleanly to Lestrade, through ball from Lestrade, straight to Holmes. Great first touch. Break away from Holmes. Pushing into the danger zone, challenge from Reid but Holmes keeps possession and stays on his feet. Just_ _Jääskeläinen_ _between Holmes and the net now and…Goal from Holmes in the twenty-seventh minute!_ _There seemed to be nothing Jääskeläinen could have done there. Holmes knew exactly where to shoot._

Looked liked classic Sherlock. Looked like what he was used to back at the training ground and back last season. It looked like competence and assuredness. It looked like genius.  

It also looked a little odd. It made sense, during training, when the stakes are not so high, that Sherlock couldn’t get a lot of celebration out of his teammates, especially given their mutual hostility. But in this game, their first game of the season, you’d think they’d be doing something. John understood that Sherlock didn’t like to be touched, but celebration is big in football. Every point is hard-won, so you celebrate. You hug, you high-five, or you fist bump with your mates. He was surprised he’d never noticed before, but he supposed he tried not to pay too much attention to the celebrations of the opposition. It sort of tempered his spirit, because he felt like a child pouting over not getting his toy instead of a professional football player. Sherlock celebrates for sure – he jumps and spins, for Christ’s sake – but by himself and without any approach from anyone else. Sure, Greg pumps his fist from afar and smiles, but there is distance. A lot of it. 

John could feel his scowl. He tried to suppress it and he hoped it worked. It wouldn’t do for pictures or footage of him frowning after a goal to circulate. He liked this Club and he didn’t need anyone thinking otherwise. That was just not on. He was excited about the goal, make no mistake, but it was hard not to feel a little down that an amazing player was an island. Everyone loves a Club with camaraderie. Everyone loves to see the joy of the players and the friendships that developed. There were friendships at Whitehall; John liked to think he had them, but this graceful, brilliant, beautiful man, although admittedly blunt to a fault, instead of being praised for knowing all he knew and being able to do all he did, is mostly shunned. 

Of course, John couldn’t dwell on it for long. Play only stops for so long when not halftime. West Ham would be on the attack again soon and John needed to be prepared. He couldn’t think why Sherlock was abrasive for sure, but was the only person to ever talk to him about why he didn’t drink more than one beer.

  _Almost a goal from Kevin Nolan, Tobias Gregson was ready for that one. Looked to be going to the top corner, but Gregson is a tall guy and got there first._

West Ham were playing solidly and professionally; this wouldn’t be the easy win he’d hoped for when listening to all Sherlock and Mike’s combined speeches. He’d heard Sherlock say they were equally skilled, so, naturally, John thought they’d have a much easier time. After all, it was hard not to have confidence when Mike and Sherlock had such confidence. Mike used impassioned words of reassurance and applied instincts and Sherlock used numbers and facts. They really were a pair to make you feel like everything was covered and every rock had been overturned. Not to mention, he’d seen how Sherlock played and how Greg played and how they all played together. He’d felt how solid they were in the back. He thought there would be a clear win. He thought they’d be up two-nil by the end of the first half and only be concerned with holding it. They hadn’t lost and he hadn’t lost faith, but it was a little unsettling, especially since what looseness Holmes – and “looseness” is extremely relative in this case – had in the first half had entirely faded. There would be no more jumping today. 

_Great first half. The managers will both be proud of their guys for what they’ve done, but they can’t let it slip now and West Ham can equalize, but they need to push to create more goal opportunities and use them wisely. Whitehall has been pretty solid in the back throughout the match, but every area has a weakness and West Ham needs to find it._  

First real break since the adventure began and John appreciated it. They were all huddled together in the locker-room, some sitting and gulping their water to replace what they were sweating out and others were bone dry. They all listened to Mike give them a great speech, telling them basic things they already knew, but driving it home all the same. In a display that would be out of character if half the group weren’t panting, everyone but Mike was quiet. They could do this. They would do this.

_Clean pass from Matthew Jarvis to Joe Cole in the penalty area and – great turn – right into the back of the net! Cole equalizes in the seventy-third minute with a spectacular goal! Clean in between the defenders! Gregson was probably counting on them to block the shot, but they didn’t seem to expect Cole’s quick turn._

John prided himself on his ability to admit when a beautiful goal passed him by – he wasn’t too proud to see a job well done – and that was a great goal. He didn’t like that they were no longer winning and he found it hard not to think he should have been there and wonder if he could have done something, but it was a brilliant goal. Now, he only hoped Sherlock could get a second one.  

_Cross from Dubuque just a little off-target and didn’t quite make it to Holmes’ outstretched leg and it’s cleared. And that marks the end of that counterattack and the opposition is back on the ball. That could have been the goal Whitehall needed to get ahead. Dubuque seems to be getting a talking to from Holmes, who is not pleased with the progress of play. Stamford seems likewise frustrated by the bench._

Things were looking a little rough and John knew it wasn’t true, but it looked as if there were just fewer Whitehall players. Whitehall had eleven and West Ham had eleven, but it didn’t feel like it. John knew what that meant. It meant that they weren’t as organized as he had thought. It meant the pressure was on and things weren’t coming together, but falling apart. He should have known when he saw before how Sherlock didn’t get a crowd around him. They weren’t connected. It wasn’t just hugs and celebrations. It was performing. They didn’t seem conscious of each other. Greg seemed to know where everyone was and John knew where everyone was, but other players only seemed to know where certain players were. Dubuque knew where von Waldbaum was and likewise, but Dubuque only seemed to know the gist of where Sherlock was. He estimated well, granted, but John wondered what the cross would look like if everyone were aware of each other. Sherlock had talked about people being aware of each other and on the training grounds it seemed as if things were fine, but training grounds and matches are obviously very different. Stressful matches and the anticipation of the first half were different. John wondered if he just hadn’t noticed this last season. The game was almost over and this wasn’t something that could be fixed now, but John wondered. 

**Final Score: West Ham 1 – 1 Whitehall**

_Not the start that either Whitehall or West Ham had hoped for, but also not the result they feared. They both fought well, got one point and have an equal goal difference. This isn’t a sign of the end for them and they needn’t worry yet._

The final whistle was blown and John slowed to an easy jog, relief flooding his veins. He was admittedly a little disappointed that they didn’t win, but for the first game against a Premier League team? It’s not bad at all to have a draw. He felt a firm slap on the back that nearly knocked him over and see Johnson behind him, grinning like they’d just won silver. 

“Well done,” John said, smiling and holding his hand out for a handshake. 

“Well done.” Johnson repeated, squeezing the life out of John’s hand in return. “Welcome.” 

John couldn’t help but grin as he looked around. Everyone was congratulating each other in their own small way. This wasn’t an occasion for the grandest celebrations, but everyone liked to give some sort of acknowledgement to what was accomplished. Gregson in particular received a pat on the back from most players and Lestrade shook hands with the Ref. 

One person John didn’t see was Sherlock. 

He scanned around and saw some teammates shaking the hands of West Ham players and others grouped together in companionship, until he caught sight of Sherlock, who was already jogging off the pitch, clutching his water bottle, running his fingers through his sweaty hair, frequently wiping his forehead on his shirt-clad forearm. John watched him as he slowed from his in-game sprint to a post-game jog to a final quick walk to the doors. Anderson mentioned that Sherlock never showered down when they did, but John thought he was exaggerating, clearly not. It was obviously something they were used to, because no one else seemed to notice. Everyone else was still milling around the pitch, but John couldn’t find it in himself to join in. It took everything in him not to follow Sherlock. He would soon enough, but the handshakes on the pitch felt phoney when a Club wasn’t really a team. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To anyone who notices a repeat, in rifleman_s' reading she saw a big flaw and so I had to do some rearranging. Won't happen again, promise!


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A big thank you again to my lovely Brit-picker and beta, [rifleman_s](http://archiveofourown.org/users/rifleman_s/pseuds/rifleman_s).

* * *

_Shock Win for Whitehall Place Against Manchester City_

_Despite whispers circulating that this might be Manchester City’s year, City lost 2-1 to newcomers Whitehall Place. As veterans of the top flight and with the talent they’ve bought to fix their broken quartet, the Blues were expected to dominate, but it was ultimately a memorable occasion at the home stadium for Whitehall.  Edin Dzeko scored with a stunning header, but it was all for naught as Sherlock Holmes evaded opposition with lacklustre marking and Shinwell Johnson scored on a header from a corner **.** Whitehall made sure to have a solid defence whenever City looked to pose an attack. Whitehall held steadfast in the back and that’s what the Blues will be working on in the future, but Whitehall can’t get too full of themselves; they still need to work on being united across the board._

* * *

For the first time, Sherlock was still there when they all got to the changing room. Of course, he was already showered and dressed in his typical suit, but there he was, leaning on his locker, hands pressed together and chin perched on his fingertips. It was unsettling, having Sherlock in the changing room, especially since he wasn’t dressing or anything. He was just standing there in all his posh glory, calm, quiet, and seemingly staring at nothing. Even in the bustle of players shouting and undressing for the shower, Sherlock stood stock-still in thought. His eyes were closed and he was breathing deeply. John would have thought Sherlock was praying if he didn’t think Sherlock probably hated religion. After all, it was probably too irrational for him. 

John came back from his shower to Sherlock _still_ standing there and still overlooking. Even with his eyes closed, Sherlock looked over everyone. It made John feel self-conscious. Sure, he was used to the locker room situation and he learned to compartmentalize and think of it as just another part of the everyday. But he didn’t think he could ever compartmentalize Sherlock as everyday. There was nothing about him by any stretch of the imagination that could be called ordinary. Sherlock was a brilliant professional footie player who regularly played for a Premier League team with abundant grace and cunning. There weren’t many of those and even of that relatively small number, even less could possibly be like Sherlock, who took whatever role he wished, who was twenty and already seemed to have more figured out than John had at twenty-five. He was a brilliant alien of a man.

John coughed nervously and licked his lips as his fellow players swarmed around he and Sherlock as if they weren’t the odd statues at a bustling intersection. John had to shake it off quickly though; he couldn’t be caught looking at Sherlock Holmes. He couldn’t be caught looking at a man. Football was a tactile sport, but there was no room for looks. So, he moved on to follow his routine, albeit slowly, and tried not to look at Sherlock Holmes anymore. 

That lasted until it was time to go. It lasted until after everyone else had left. Then, John let himself look again and Sherlock still hadn’t moved a centimetre. He was still pseudo-praying as John slung his bag across his shoulder. 

“Sherlock?” 

Air rushed out of Sherlock loudly as if he had been holding his breath under water. His eyes were wide open, but still far off. 

“Oh,” Sherlock said as he blinked the distant look from his eyes, “Hello.” 

“Are you waiting for something?” John asked curiously. 

“You’re probably tired or something else extremely tedious,” Sherlock declared straightforwardly. 

“Right,” John interjected after he’d caught up from the abrupt change of subject. 

“Probably want to go back to your flat.” 

“Right.” 

“Let’s go to dinner,” Sherlock said blandly. 

“Yes,” John confirmed.

* * *

The restaurant was a nice Italian place Sherlock seemed familiar with. They sat tucked in the back at a small table with forbiddingly low lighting where Sherlock could face the front and survey the scene, and John felt increasingly out of the loop just staring awkwardly at Sherlock and the wall. They ordered wine and blended in with the dinner crowd. It almost seemed normal. But it wasn’t. It wasn’t normal. It was Sherlock Holmes sipping wine across from him. It was an Italian man coming by the table and telling them that the food was on the house. It was Sherlock Holmes nearly being hugged. It was Sherlock quickly cutting this man off when he began to explain why. It was John staring in quiet and obvious observation. 

John swirled his nearly empty wine glass and smiled. “You were right about my drinking.” 

Sherlock didn’t turn his head in response, but he looked at John from the corner of his eye. “Of course I was,” Sherlock said, slyly, or it would have been perfectly sly, but his face took a turn away from self-assured towards curious. “About everything?” 

“Yes,” John assured. “How do you know these things? Circus fortune-teller in a past life? Or psychoanalyst, maybe?”

“Of course not. I just observe,” Sherlock insisted. 

“How so?” 

“I looked at you, I saw that you only had one drink and nursed it because you were used to having to make it last, and I used the data accumulated from observing others. It was logical. It was statistical. It’s more likely for a child of an alcoholic to be an alcoholic and, even if you didn’t know that fact, you would also, because of that increased statistic, probably have seen it in a sibling and feared it was not just something your father suffered from, but a family trait. You’re brave when it counts, but you’re afraid of possibilities. That’s why you have a psychosomatic limp. You’re afraid of the statistics. You’re more likely to be an alcoholic and you’re more likely to get another hamstring injury.” 

“Absolutely amazing,” John said matter-of-factly. 

Sherlock simply nodded in approval and looked back to the crowd. 

“What are we doing here anyway?” John asked. He was ordinarily comfortable with quiet, but feeling Sherlock’s eyes boring into a crowd behind him and having no idea what was there was intimidating to say the least. 

“Look around,” Sherlock said, infuriatingly not answering the question. 

John twisted around to see what Sherlock might be talking about. He saw the standard couples illuminated by candlelight, young and old, and the perfect nuclear families. He saw men gathered at the bar, watching match highlights and the news as they clinked their glasses on the table. 

“Am I supposed to notice something out of the ordinary? This looks like the regular restaurant crowd.” 

“That,” Sherlock said with a general nod towards the closest end of the bar, where a man sat quietly hunched over his drink, “is Jefferson Hope, Moriarty’s deputy.” 

“What is a Mountford player doing in Fitton?” John whispered almost conspiratorially. 

“The same thing we are,” Sherlock answered **,** blasé. 

“And what’s that?” John continued. 

“Research,” Sherlock stated. 

That sounded familiar. 

“Why would he do research?” 

“James Moriarty sends his scouts to find out the standard formation and starting line-up, but he sends players to find out about the opposition. Personally. He likes to accumulate players who professionally play football _and_ who professionally blackmail.” 

“You’re joking.” 

“I don’t joke.” 

“True. So, the manager actually sends a scout _and_ one of his players? Why?” 

“To play the game.” 

“That doesn’t make any sense. It’s so unnecessary.” 

“Not the way he plays it.” 

John could tell it was a lost cause and Sherlock wasn’t going to say any more, so he decided it was best not to waste energy trying. 

“So, is research the only reason for you to go out?” John joked. 

“Yes,” Sherlock stated briskly. 

 “So, you don’t have people outside football? Friends, I mean. Mates?” 

“No. No ‘ _mates_ ’.” 

“A girlfriend, maybe?”  John guessed. 

“Not really my area.” 

“Oh,” John said. He saw Sherlock’s acute look. “ _Oh_. You mean? Wow. I mean…wow. Of course, it’s fine, you know. All fine.” 

John didn’t want to stammer. He didn’t want to seem flustered and he really didn’t want to seem judgmental, but it was hard not to be flustered when a teammate in professional football had actually _come out to him_. That doesn’t just happen. Football, as beautiful as the sport is, is also a hotbed of prejudice. Racism, sexism, homophobia, he’d seen them all. Sure, Robbie Rogers came out, but he promptly quit thereafter. Justin Fashanu infamously committed suicide after coming out, which was admittedly in part because of sexual assault accusations, but likely partly the aftermath of coming out. Those were just the players who came out. There were straight players taunted on the pitch for their hobbies. Then Sherlock just said it as if it was no big deal. 

Sherlock simply raised an eyebrow at his look of crisis. 

“So, boyfriend then?” John continued awkwardly. 

“No.” 

For a moment, John worried that he’d got it wrong all along, but then he saw a little smirk. _Bastard._  

“That’s, uh, good. You’re unattached, just like me.” 

“Look, I have to focus on the work. I’m really not looking for any sort of relationship,” Sherlock began. John could tell there was more to come, so he had to cut Sherlock off there and then if he wanted to keep his sanity. 

“Oh, no. I’m not-“ John started. 

“You don’t have to lie to me. You know it doesn’t work anyway,” Sherlock declared nonchalantly. 

“What?” 

“I know,” he insisted. 

“You know what?” 

“I know you’re gay.” 

“I’m-“ John struggled, gobsmacked. 

“Cowardice doesn’t suit you nearly as well. I know you’re afraid to be gay because you might have to admit that your last relationship was a beard. You didn’t mean to string her on, but you did. You wanted to be straight, but you weren’t. Luckily for you, I don’t care about any of it.” 

“I-“ 

“John,” Sherlock stated sternly. “There’s no use pretending with me.” 

All the air seemed to whoosh out of his body. He knew he should be angry about Sherlock carelessly making declarations about his sexuality. Not that he wasn’t angry, he was. Sherlock was talking down to him about something he’d struggled with for years as if it were no big deal. He was making it sound like being gay in football wasn’t hard. He called him a coward for Christ’s sake. 

But, on the other hand, John was glad he didn’t have to explain. He didn’t have to say aloud that even though he had once talked about marriage with Mary, it was just a sad attempt to be straight when he wasn’t. He had thought he could be straight because he wanted to be straight, but he wasn’t and never would be. He thought that he couldn’t be so good at pretending if it weren’t true. People wouldn’t find it so easy to believe if there wasn’t a little truth to it. But now, he knew and he would have to live his life in secret, because football didn’t like gay players and he would have to live his life knowing that a woman he’d told he loved would always be someone he’d used. If anyone found out he was gay, it would probably shorten his career and everyone would know Mary was a victim and he didn’t like being unemployed and especially didn’t like being the villain. He wanted to be a good person. 

So, he was annoyed that Sherlock opened that wound but he was glad, too, that Sherlock said it so he didn’t have to **,** and particularly that the person who knew didn’t care. It was quite liberating actually to have someone who knew and didn’t give a fuck. He didn’t have to pretend to himself or to Sherlock. It was nice being outed, even when it wasn’t. 

Sherlock’s skewed sense of ethics was both horrible and great. 

“I’m pretty sure you’re not supposed to just out people like that,” John said. 

“Someone had to. If not you, might as well be me,” Sherlock answered nonchalantly. 

“Why?” John laughed. 

“Takes one to know one. Or something. Besides, now you can fuck a man like you’ve wanted to and there’s none of the guilt attached. No attachments at all, actually.” 

“What?” John choked out. 

“John,” Sherlock scolded. 

“Sorry. I’ve yet to get the hang of your…candour.” John weighed his options. He’d struggled so long trying to convince himself he was straight and trying to convince himself that his thoughts about men were just aesthetic appreciation. It was an odd form of jealousy or something, not attraction. He would like to be straight like his fellow players. But he wasn’t; he wasn’t straight. He looked at Sherlock and was jealous of his skill and admired his finesse, but he was also attracted to him. He looked at the half-lit face across from him and its strange beauty.  He saw the way his curls fell on his forehead and thought about how with Sherlock it didn’t matter what it meant. He could just do it. “Fuck it. Let’s go.”


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to the always fabulous [rifleman_s](http://archiveofourown.org/users/rifleman_s/pseuds/rifleman_s).

 

* * *

[Brazilian Footballer Posts Pictures of Kiss and Fans Picket](http://www.huffingtonpost.com/2013/08/27/emerson-sheik-football-gay-kiss-_n_3823142.html)

_“Displaying signs saying “Fuck off and kiss somewhere else; this is a place for men” and “No gays”, fans outside the Corinthians arena react strongly to Emerson Sheik. Despite the sentiments, these fans insist that they are not homophobic; they just don’t want to see it. A rough translation of the caption on his photo is: ‘_ _One has to be very brave to celebrate friendship without fear of what the bigots will say. It has to be very free to celebrate a victory so clean face with a friend who always supports you’ and Emerson acted accordingly, telling fans that the picture reflected Emerson as a person and not Emerson as a footballer.”_

* * *

As surreal as it was to invite Sherlock back to his flat, it was nothing compared to actually having him in the flat. Sherlock inspected what little there was to inspect as John watched in awe from the corner. John always felt that way whenever someone came back to his flat. Not because he thought himself unattractive, but because the idea just seemed unreal. With women, he didn’t understand exactly why this felt so strange until much later, but with Sherlock he didn’t understand how he’d got here at all, this lithe man in a perfectly tailored black suit, with dark brown curly hair, standing in John’s austere flat. The stark emptiness of the flat and its beige emulsion, which was astounding in its blandness, only seemed to make Sherlock stand out more than he already did whether in the busiest room or the bustling of the pitch and somehow just with Sherlock standing there, his flat seemed so much bleaker. 

“Tea or coffee?” John blurted out. 

“This is a nervous thing,” Sherlock stated, staring intensely at the ceiling corner. 

“Yes,” John admitted quickly. “Tea or Coffee?” 

“Coffee. Three sugars.” 

“Ta.” 

John stared at the kettle and wondered how just moments ago this all seemed like a good idea. Maybe it was the romantic lighting, the frank sex talk and the brutal honesty, but now, in the unforgiving light of his flat, this seemed ridiculous. Sherlock Holmes and John Watson? Midfielder and striker in a gay, semi-strangers-with-benefits situation? How did this seem like a good idea?

 But he couldn’t tell Sherlock to leave. There was a gorgeous, brilliant man in his living room, who he could actually…be intimate with. 

God, this was weird. He didn’t even know what to do. It wasn’t as if Sherlock was going to hold his hand and walk him through it like a dutiful boyfriend. He had a practical understanding from the Internet, of course, but he knew as well as anyone that didn’t mean much in reality. 

Carrying two mugs back to where Sherlock was perched on the couch, John still wasn’t exactly sure what to do. Flirt? Just go for it? He sat down next to Sherlock at a reasonable distance and tried not to stare while Sherlock finished scanning his flat. 

Sherlock sipped the coffee and hummed approvingly before promptly slamming the mug back on the table. 

“Sherlock!” 

Silently, Sherlock snatched John’s coffee away and just as quickly deposited it on the table. 

“What – “ John started. 

Sherlock straddled John’s legs in one swift movement. He grabbed John by the back of his neck and kissed him roughly, to which John simply sat in shock before Sherlock pulled away. 

“Shut up,” Sherlock demanded, with the words’ breath ghosting across John’s lips. 

The whisper of Sherlock’s voice and the warmth of his breath seemed to evaporate John’s hesitation. He had a beautiful, fascinating man literally in his lap. He could do things with him that he’d only guiltily and pathetically thought about. Now was his chance. So, John threaded his fingers in the curls in response and _tugged_. Sherlock’s lips crashed into his and it felt _amazing_ ; lips, which were soft to the touch but not soft in pressure. 

It was absolutely no surprise that Sherlock was a contender in this kiss and that he pushed back. He gripped John’s cotton shirt with both hands and sat firmly in John’s lap. He wasn’t hovering just above, but seated directly on him. He could feel Sherlock’s arse pressed against his legs. He could admit now that he had occasionally thought about Sherlock’s arse in his tight tailored suits. The kit shorts didn’t do him many favors, but _those suits_. 

John smoothed his hands down Sherlock’s back, grabbed that arse in his two hands and pulled Sherlock harder against him. 

Harder, indeed, because the friction of Sherlock sliding against him was just too good not to incite a reaction. He kissed Sherlock _hard_ , as if his life depended on it. Breathing the same air and sharing the same space, it wasn’t romantic. It wasn’t _lovemaking_. It was intoxicating. He had Sherlock on his lap and they could do as they pleased. 

Sherlock moved to take John’s shirt off and began to pull it over his head. They separated just as long as it took for the shirt to slide over his head and then Sherlock’s lips promptly returned. Wasting no time, Sherlock swiftly smoothed his hands down to the buckle of John’s belt. With his long, dexterous fingers, he unclicked the belt, which seemed to echo in the too quiet flat. John moved to do the same for Sherlock, but the other man showed no response except to give a nearly silent groan of approval and continue to undo John’s jeans.  

All the air seemed to rush out of John in one breath as Sherlock dipped his hand beneath his waistband. 

“Sherlock,” John gasped in borderline admiration. 

Sherlock lowered his head to continue kissing down John’s neck. John was so preoccupied he almost forgot what he was doing. Women had touched him before, but not like this, not this methodically. He felt Sherlock’s hands on him and his hair brushing his chin and chest and he had to suppress shivers. He was almost afraid that if he shivered, Sherlock might stop. 

And Sherlock should never stop. 

“John,” Sherlock interjected and, with that, John jolted back. 

“Sorry,” he laughed. 

He slipped the fingers of his left hand back into Sherlock’s hair and tugged, while mimicking Sherlock’s actions by his waistband. Sherlock’s trousers, as they usually did, left little excess room, so John had to finagle a little more among his inexperienced fumbling. Of course he knew what to do for himself, but it was entirely different on another body with another person. What would Sherlock like? Would it be similar? Or completely different? 

It was time to find out. 

He started by tracing every inch, trying to picture what he couldn’t yet see. He felt for the head, foreskin, veins, anything and everything. He sort of preferred the suspense of it, with Sherlock breathing against his skin in heavy bursts and the feel of Sherlock’s rough hands on him. To continue his initiative, Sherlock was the first to pull John out into the open air. Which just made everything even more unreal. John discovered just how different feeling and seeing were. Alternately feeling Sherlock’s fingers delicately exploring him and his palm rather roughly pressing and grazing, left something to the imagination, while seeing it all just exposed the stark reality. John wanted to see everything. He pulled Sherlock free as well and continued to marvel at the state of his life. 

Sherlock used his large hand to press both shafts together and hold them against each other and John couldn’t help but groan. 

“Fuck, Sherlock,” he moaned as Sherlock began to shift his palm. 

John joined his hand to finish the surrounding circle that Sherlock begun and tried to match the pace; it took a couple of tries, but eventually they began to move in sync and John had to clench his jaw to prevent it from slackening as the friction doubled. 

John could feel it all building embarrassingly quickly. He wanted to last longer, but who was he kidding? Sherlock was on his lap, stroking his member. He didn’t seem to be fooling Sherlock either, because, just before he reached his peak, Sherlock grabbed John’s previously discarded shirt and covered their hands. Even as he was overwhelmed by sensation, he made sure to continue moving his hands, lest Sherlock miss his completion because John was distracted. John was admittedly a little amazed when, in his hypersensitive state, he could feel Sherlock orgasm on top of him, reveling in the feeling of not just his own ejaculation, but Sherlock’s as well.

Sherlock seemed to stop to breathe for only a moment before sliding away. He tucked himself in, zipped up and buttoned up and suddenly the only way anyone could tell they’d done anything untoward was the faint flush and the messy curls.  

“Until tomorrow,” he stated quickly before briskly walking out the door. 

“Wait,” John gasped, “Sherlock?” 

The sound of the slamming front door seemed to echo through the extremely empty-feeling flat. John realized how exposed he was and how sticky he was and he jumped up quickly to shower and, just before he fell asleep, wonder what tomorrow would be like and try to forget how right this felt. This probably wasn’t what Sherlock expected when he came home with him, but John found it hard to be disappointed. For his first gay time, he was mostly glad just to have had it.

* * *

While Sherlock was the master of compartmentalization, John was not quite as well versed. Training the next day was a practice in self-control, not necessarily because John was going to jump him  - although it was hard not to get ideas when seeing Sherlock’s hands and fondly remembering - but John needed to hide what they’d already done. And thinking about needing to hide it, only seemed to make it more difficult. He shouldn’t look amazed by Sherlock, but he shouldn’t look repulsed. Eventually, he just tried not to look at all. 

Instead, he spent more time with Greg and Bill, who touched him the way footballers were allowed to do, but it made him uncomfortable regardless and always had. It wasn’t that he particularly liked it or disliked it; it was that even if he didn’t react as if he was gay, he was still afraid it might slip through. The guys hugged each other and ruffled each other’s hair and could be unafraid, because they were straight. It made John nervous, especially now, when he’d actually been with a man and could no longer make excuses for pretending he was straight. 

Aside from John, training was light, because, despite the pressure from Sherlock to earn some silverware, their next game seemed pretty easy.  Accrington Stanley were in League 2 and, while a team should never assume a win, because then they were bound to lose, everyone was hopeful and Sherlock was downright ecstatic as far as Sherlock went and of course he said as much in his strategy meeting by being slightly less crass than usual, claiming that “a loss would be an achievement in failure that was not beyond them, but should be”. 

Thankfully for John’s sanity, he was scheduled to play in the match and, nearly as good, Sherlock wasn’t. Sherlock obviously couldn’t play every match and they needed to prioritize, so this match they could do without him. This way, John could blot out his world with the crowd and the adrenaline and not have to worry about needing to be aware of Sherlock’s position on the pitch at all times. It would be the perfect break. 

Though, after the night before, John almost expected to see Sherlock outside the stadium or in the changing room waiting to command his presence, but Sherlock disappeared as he usually did and John was left to drive back to his flat without a phone number to text or an email to send to Sherlock, which was probably for the best anyway. A match would soon put things back in order. 


End file.
